


another day in old redwick

by angelicwerewolf



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Demons, Hellhounds, Horror, Injury, Mild Gore, Supernatural Elements, alex hirsch i will pay you to voice my chaotic ass evil hellhound pls, also completely unrelated but, as well shadow man, but not really bc it's not written out in any detail, i headcanon von's voice being alex hirsch's, let him be von smh, mentions of injury, oliver is just trying to enjoy his mug of tea, the conductor is only mentioned by name, this isn't beta read by the by, von is the biggest jerk on earth, whenever i actually even get to animate this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicwerewolf/pseuds/angelicwerewolf
Summary: As regular as a morning can be when your employer is a demon hellbent on making your life and everyone else's a living hell of misery and you're damned to live with him, Oliver tries to enjoy his mug of tea but Von decides that no one can have peace.





	another day in old redwick

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a "summary" of the type of chaotic bullshit Von creates, that not even the Hell King can tolerate; much less his contractor, Oliver, who has deal with it every day. Also: I wrote this instead of working on the story itself bc I am actually planning to eventually animate this as a full, long cartoon show. If you read my other latest original work; The Harbor Of Monsters; and read the end notes, I referred to "The Big Main Three" of stories I'm working on; this is one of them; Some Dogs Don't Go To Heaven, SDDGTH for short. You can follow my art twitter @corvidture for more details and how these characters look as well.
> 
> For context, Old Redwick is a fictional town I've created, settled in Russia -- Von's birthplace and permanent home. I'll add more in the end notes!

Today was a chilly morning in -- no different from any other day, really, when it came to the scenery and weather around this old, big haunted pseudo-mansion cabin Oliver was doomed to reside in with a smartass, smug-faced infuriating employer. If the cabin wasn’t haunted already, the man’s trickery and temper would be far scarier (than it already is) -- but he tried not to think about that so early in the morning, at the start of a brand new day he’d just awoken from; of his know-it-all employer, the human skull on the chimney top, the shadow that peers with two bright white eyes and ducks away when you look at. _Sometimes_ . Plenty of time for that later, he thinks as the thick forest of dark pine trees covered in fluffy white glares back at him through the window he’d been staring off into. Tired and sleepy, Oliver’s numb yet still a easily-frightened individual, lost.  
  
Oliver sighs then, drooping, but soon enough his fluffy-spiked and bushy tail perks up like a cat’s, startled, as the tea kettle goes off with a shrilling whistle that makes his ears ring painfully. He scrambles to turn the stove top off and as he does, through the panic of disturbing the other entity in the house, he’s not thinking when he clearly refuses to acknowledge the kettle has a perfectly usable, intact and safe handle when he grabs it by the side.  
  
As one would expect, he yelps an indignant noise -- He nearly sends the thing flying into the sink, the floor, whatever came first but he sticks by his poor decision-making choices like a dog who doesn’t understand why it can’t walk through a much too small door with a sizable tree branch. But unlike the dog whose pride beams once it finally finds the answer to the dilemma, Oliver felt embarrassed instead.

Now with the stove turned off, he turned his right hand to reveal pale skin was now entirely covered in a fresh red burn that made his skin sting against the fresh air around it. The realization of this new pain on top of the burn made him hiss, baring small canines tight. Unlike his previously mentioned employer, Von, he doesn’t heal fast, if at all at any supernatural rate. The hellhound could get shot point blank range between his eyes and he’d get back to his feet just fine, sometimes he has to rest, but Oliver? -- No human anymore, immortal in a sense as well but he heals at the same rate as if he was still one. For this reason, _not excluding Von however,_ the cabin might as well have a demon’s lifetime supply of medkits strewn in odd places. Like the kitchen cabinet supposed to hold condiments, but as there was no need to eat for the hound it was merely stuffed with said kits.

All was now nudged to a corner though, as the supply in the kitchen was running low _and_ Oliver very much still got painfully hungry despite being a demon, _thank you very much._ It doesn’t take long for the short demon to properly treat the nasty burn and protect it in a bundle of comfortably firm bandages.

Just like that, the medkit’s put away and the panicking’s gone. The bandages are enough of a suppression of a welcomed cushion against the pain, but certainly not enough to prepare his tea with his dominant hand. Oliver flicks his tail irritably, then. It’s not even a late morning and a headache reacting to his inconveniences is already trying to worm itself in but _nope --_ none of that, he decides, as if he could fight off a headache like that.  
  
Carefully, Oliver rolls the sleeves of his sweatshirt up and mumbles. “I’ll just prepare my tea and eat whatever’s leftover from yesterday,” He grabs the kettle with his good hand -- _by the handle this time, --_ and gently tips it on its side, then out comes the boiling water into a big, plain mug. Inside said mug, a bag of cardamom cinnamon tea bobbed up for a mere second then sunk to the bottom where he let it lay.

He likes his beverages sweetly strong, when it came to sweet teas.

So, when Oliver deems it sweet enough, he pulls the bag out, ready to throw it away but when he turns to go and do just that, he yelps instead -- a figure that seemingly decided to appear out of thin air was right next to him that made the fur on his tail stand on end and kick his brain into flight or fight gear mode. It’s a weird combination of the two, as he outright tosses the small bag of tea like a professional baseball player and then scuttles back. Sadly, It’s becoming a habitual response for Oliver when someone sneaks on him like that but -- _Thank God_ he didn’t have his drink in hand or anything else, because the figure was that of the all-too familiar hellhound, who’d caught the small bag in a hand and was now staring at it in pure disgust. Far better than anger, if he’d been hit with the mug and was drenched and scalded in cinnamon tea.

Oliver was too busy trying to keep his heart from leaping out through his throat to notice the grimace of golden, shark-like teeth when Von’s face further scrunched up at the bag. Swiftly he throws it away as if it was a safety hazard.  
  
_“Cinnamon?”_ He asks in his highly noticeable Russian accent, even through the low, grumbly-growl in his throat he rumbles out softly but dangerously; as if the very existence of the sweet spice was an audacity. The hellhound strolls up next to Oliver in one long step, not at all amused. “That’s disgusting.” Then he proceeds to wipe his clawed hand against Oliver’s shoulder, between the shoulder and the upper part of the arm, to clean the cinnamon-scented water against his sweatshirt instead in a attempt to save his gloves from the threats of a spice.

The movement is what snapped Oliver out of it, but his sweatshirt being used as a towel is what made him groan and scowl. “There was a _drying cloth_ right next to you. Would it have been too hard to get _that?”_ To save his tea from possible drainage down the sink, Oliver immediately takes it with his uninjured hand -- sure to conceal his burnt one, save himself the hellhound’s assured mockery -- and turns away towards the dinner table where he promptly takes his seat. “Tolerating a bit of cinnamon ain’t gonna kill you either, Von.” He wanted to say more, but he takes a careful sip to prevent himself from blurting out what he wished he could finish his sentence with -- something along the lines of: _‘Not like it can in the first place, Drama King.’_

But, It’s better that it goes unsaid and is only a passing comment in his head, who knows how Von was to react when he’s already miffed.

A scoff. “And why should I care about that or do as _you_ see fit? It’s my house.” The hellhound leans against the kitchen counter with his messy tail nudged to the side before he brings both arms up to cross them above his chest, puffing it when he continues. “I don’t want the permeating smell of cinnamon on me nor to have tea stains anywhere near me in the first place. Forbid my turtleneck gets stained.”

“Then _why_ come to the kitchen in the first place? You’re a _hellhound,_ I thought your kind could smell stuff from miles away.”

  
“While cinnamon _is_ way too potent of a smell, a small thing such as cinnamon _in_ tea is not enough for my senses to be entirely bothered. I am _now,_ though.” As if to emphasize, he glares between the garbage can and the mug Oliver continues to hold close. Then a glint in his dull yellow eyes alert the other that Von got an idea, or remembered something -- neither a good thing.

Oliver cautiously watches Von kick the heel of his shoes’s to push himself off the counter and then quickly still himself with arms now resting behind him -- in one other long stride forward, in an almost snake-like lean, he steps to the other end of the table across from Oliver who has to nearly sunk all the way down in his chair, pressed against the backrest, preparing himself if he needed to bolt from the volatile demon. His posture, grin, even his ears were indication of a passive mood though, but --  
  
His ears were almost always reared back as if he felt threatened with only the occasional twitch here and there, the fur of his own tail still as the water in a pond, but Oliver knew better than that and he sure as Hell knew Von did not have an ounce of reason in his body, never mind a brain cell, to let his pride be mocked by feeling like a cornered dog, much less by him. Von wasn’t a easy entity to read, for he made his amusement or displeasure, lack of interest, his uncaring nature for others, and anger and thin patience clear (due to a _very_ short temperament) -- any other emotions, thoughts, ideas, all of it; were hidden behind half-lidded eyes and a never-fading wide grin of chompers.

Oliver's tail coils around one leg of the chair, unlike Von’s of which gently wags from side to side. He coughs a bit worriedly, “Hey. V- Von?”

Von offers a far wider, but slanted grin, humming in a little sing-song voice. “This bad boy caught the scent of burning flesh,” he brings a hand forward to tap one of his long, sharp claws against his nose, twice. “That's why I'm here. And you’re hiding your hand. What accident did you get yourself into now, hm?”

The other lets out a long, tired, slightly pissed groan and squishes his face; annoyed. “You’re like an itch under the skin but if it means I can get you off my back,” Oliver pulls his hand out from the sweatshirt's pocket and waves said bandaged hand. “I grabbed the kettle by side and burned myself.”

In a voice that sounds like he’s trying to contain laughter, Von ever so slightly snorts, _“Really?”_ He head tilts to one side, rolling his eyes. “You get into a lot of ridiculous accidents, but I have no time to deal with that. Gotta do stuff today! And begrudgingly for me but lucky for you, I don’t have to send you chasing after scurrying humans.”  
  
As if that’s meant to make all his worries and mistakes go away. He is relieved nonetheless -- his job as a puppet is a tricky and nasty plot, he hates luring people into their doom. “Thanks, I guess.”

A millisecond later, he’s brushed off, “Regardless of that! I do need your utmost, humblest, goody-two-shoes opinion.”  
  


“Uh- For _what,_ specifically?”  
  
“Being a nuisance.”  
  
Not that he’s surprised, but he _is_ curious and taken aback. He never asks him for his opinion regarding _any_ matters, so what’s so different about this time? Was the hellhound finally considering letting be in peace that lanky figure of a looming man in a dark coat? Just his unnerving shade of bright blue eyes seemed like it could kill just about anyone, especially when the entity’s beret concealed his features under a shadow and only his striking eyes shone through it like a pair of red orbs belonging to no body, peering at you through the woods in the dark, far but ever so close.

Maybe Von finally has some sort of sense in him to not mess with something that comes from another dimension, but he’s skeptical. It’s been quite some time since Von last got on that man’s nerves, after all. “Is it about the man with that old-fashioned train?”

“Oh, him?” A moment’s pause as he thinks, two claws cupping the end of his chin in thought. “No. Not yet, but soon enough.”  
  
“You’re gonna get decapitated again.”

  
“As if that’s gonna stop _me.”_ Now it’s his turn to scowl, pinching the bridge of his nose while at it. “I’d _adore_ if you could stop yappin’ and zip it already or so help, I’ll snap one of your pathetic ram horns and skin the burn off your injured hand. Got it?”  
  
It goes without saying that Oliver's bravado comes tumbling down like a jenga game -- he’s quiet, taking another sip of his tea in a combination of fear and shame, but this time he keeps his mug pressed to his face. “..Sorry,” Mumbled the lesser demon, looking everywhere at anything but Von.  
  
“Was that so hard, Junior?” In a dismissive manner, he waves a hand, his dark tone settling back to the usual lively tone. “Now that that’s out of the way,” continuing as if nothing’s happened, he proposes his horrible idea. “Think; A long time ago I used to torment humans by tearing off the skin of my face. It worked quite the charm, so I was thinking; what if I was to employ this tactic again," The hellhound talks with his hands as well, pointing and gesturing and waving. "If I'm lucky, these puny little humans will be scared soulless in place. They might faint, or die, would definitely make that part of the job easier when I need to chuck 'em down to Hell. Most importantly, however, no blood to ruin my clothes!”  
  
Oliver's definitely mortified, horrified, sick to his stomach -- there's probably not enough words in the human or supernatural language to describe the _shock_ that makes itself present in wide, red eyes. He's not sure what’s worse, too; the image of a face-skinned man dog, the concern for his clothes rather than himself _or more importantly_ these poor victims, or his temptations to swallow the still-hot tea whole to burn his throat and destroy his voice so he doesn’t _have_ to offer his opinion -- he decides not to do that, but he quickly regrets it the second he opens his damn mouth. “I have an even better idea!” He says, setting the mug down to clap his hands together -- another action he quickly regrets when his hand sears with pain -- and smiles, a nervous, incredulous smile. “How about you _don’t do that?_ ” _  
__  
_ “Want me to demonstrate?”  
  
“Absolutely _not._ ”  
  
He does it anyway, not even a second later.  
  
Needless to say, before fading out of consciousness, he heard the hellhound’s horrendous, amused cackling. _Motherfucker._

**Author's Note:**

> warning for awful parents, mentions of death and violence:
> 
> Wolf Von Bluth is a villainous, self-employed dealmaker demon, who happens to be a Wolf Hellhound able to shift between a Humanoid Form and his Hellhound Form-- He's the biggest Hellhound in Hell and the unofficial King of Hounds, as well as the worst chaotic resident down there and a pain for The Ruler (more formally known Hell King/King Of Hell) and The Nine Monarchs of The Nine Realms of Hell. He used to be human, born and raised in Russia, named Nikolai Vasiliev Sovetsky, who was a neglected 8-year-old that was left by his parents when they fled to England. His grandfather, a infamous mob boss, put him in the orphanage where he fled from at 11 years of age and was later murdered the same day in 1860 by a serial killer after having lost his way in the woods.
> 
> To keep a long set of lore short, this is what leads him to a hellish rebirth as the villain hellhound he is today. He's lived in Russia the majority of his life, but has two more cabins in The US and The UK; where he temporarily lives in when job calls in those parts of the world. Otherwise, he stays hidden away in the thickest, deepest part of the woods of Russia in Old Redwick, a town he's horrified since his rebirth.
> 
> Oliver comes from the more modern times-- dealing with an unknown, potentially life-threatening illness, and his father disowning him long ago; he made a deal with Von (still trying to figure out and decide the timeline of this event) to find a cure and get his life on track. This backfired when they made the contract much to Oliver's obliviousness, despite the tattoo-like markings that made it clear to any other demon he was a specific Hellhound's puppet. Von possessed Oliver a few days later and made him commit an attempted murder, essentially making him a wanted man so he couldn't return to a bullshit-free life. 4 years later, Oliver died, but Von brought him back as a Lesser Demon who portrays resemblance to a Lesser Demon Goat, despite his horns being more akin to ram horns.
> 
> Shadow Man is Spoilers. Just know that he's unable to escape the attic and is absolutely terrified of Von and doesn't mess with anyone whatsoever, he only spooks Oliver unintentionally. He doesn't speak and has a perpetual look of sorrow.
> 
> The Conductor (who's heavy story involvment is not SDDGTH) will be further explained whenever I write a snippet of his story that's also a main one.
> 
> It's 2023 when this story officially starts after the (unpublished ofc) written pilot's opening.
> 
> To add to Hell's lore without any spoilers, It's ruled by the devil mostly known as Hell King -- a large, shadowy goat with equally large horns and each Nine Circle of Hell has what's known as a Custodian or Ruler. Hell King and The Rulers are trying to keep a decent amount of peace down in Hell, which actually has freezing temperatures and resembles a busy city with apartments, shops, malls, houses, etc.
> 
> While I've yet to even draw Hell King, the First Circle's Ruler is a Horseperson; Pestilence, who goes by the human name of Barnabas. And oh! the reason Hellhounds, Lesser Demons (those with goat-like features) and Lesser Goat Demons are considered different from one another rather than just an entire species, it's because each demon falls under their own type of species. The ones alluded to here are The Hellhounds, which range from all types of canines and can either shapeshift or not, Von being a lava-puking, fire-wielding shapeshifting hellhound. The Lesser Demons are a species of demons who still look like a human entirely, or have a variety of demonic traits like Oliver's eyes, tail, elongated canines and horns, then there's two types of related Demon Goat kinds; Lesser Goat Demons who look like, well, an anthro demonic goat and The Great Goat, which happens to be the only one of it's branch, Hell King. There's other species of demons in SDDGTH but I won't ramble too much 'bout 'em ;w;


End file.
